


(I Would be Happy) Just to Hold the Hands I Love

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Oh look it's a Christmas story, Pre-Apocalypse, christmas gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Life as an immortal being can get lonely, especially around the holidays. Aziraphale and Crowley each have their own ways of coping.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	(I Would be Happy) Just to Hold the Hands I Love

**Author's Note:**

> I had a completely different kind of Christmas story in the works, but then I was working in my kitchen, and Sarah McLachlan's haunting cover of Gordon Lightfoot's "Song for a Winter's Night" popped up on my playlist, and now you all get this.

It was getting late.

Not that that should have mattered to two beings who didn't need sleep, but there were some lines that their Arrangement didn't cross, and spending the night at the other's home was one of them. And so it was that Aziraphale watched, not without some regret, as Crowley sobered himself up and reached for his warm wool coat.

 _Just ask him_ , his mind whispered.

“So,” said Crowley. “Plans for Christmas?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Er. Yes. A few blessings to do, obviously. And those lovely fellows from the café invited me to their Lost Christmas party again this year.” It was a bit of a neighbourhood tradition; the owner of the a nearby coffee shop and his longtime partner hosting a big Christmas dinner for friends and acquaintances who, for whatever reason, couldn't spend the day with family.

 _Just ask him,_ the angel's mind whispered, a bit louder this time.

“Yeah, I got plans too,” said Crowley.

_Oh._

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Something scandalous, I presume?”

“You know me, angel. Got a reputation to uphold.” Crowley wrapped his thick, red scarf around his neck and reached into the pocket of his coat for his gloves. “Oh,” he said. “Almost forgot. Um.” He pulled a slim, neatly-wrapped parcel out of his pocket – one that by all rights shouldn't have been able to fit in there. “I, ah, I got you something.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth open, just a little bit. He reached out slowly to take the parcel from Crowley's hand. “A Christmas present?” he managed. “You've never given me a Christmas present before.”

The demon's face reddened, slightly. “S'nothing really,” he said. “I know it's a bit of a risk, getting you a book. For obvious reasons.” He gestured vaguely to the overstuffed shelves surrounding them. “But, it's, well, it's signed, and I thought there was a reasonable chance you might not have it.”

Aziraphale clutched the still-wrapped package to his chest. “I didn't get you anything,” he managed.

“S'fine,” said Crowley. “Like you said, we don't usually do this.” He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Well,” he said. “I should be going.”

“But I haven't opened this yet. Oh, should I wait until Christmas?” Aziraphale wasn't actually quite sure what the rules were for this sort of thing.

“Nah, open it whenever you like, angel,” said Crowley. “I'll, ah, I'll see you around.” He turned and made for the door. “Happy Christmas,” he called out as he stepped out into the snow.

“Happy Christmas,” said Aziraphale. “And, er, thank you.” But the door was already closed, and he wasn't sure that Crowley had heard.

\--

Well. This was something new. A Christmas present. How thoughtful. He set the parcel down on his desk and stared at it. The paper was a plain, shiny red, and it was tied around with a gold ribbon. Should he open it now? He should wait to open it. But on the other hand, Crowley had said to open it whenever he liked. And Aziraphale had never been very good at delayed gratification. Especially not when there were books involved.

Carefully, almost reverently, he untied the ribbon and put it aside. He ran a thumbnail under the seam of the paper, working it loose without tearing it. He removed the paper and found ... yes, it was a book. He turned it over in his hands. Crowley had been right, he didn't have this one. A couple of decades old, from the look of it, but in fairly good condition. He opened it up, turned to the title page. Sure enough, just as Crowley had said, it was signed. It appeared to be a collection of poetry. Excerpts from song lyrics, he realized, accompanied by stark, airbrushed paintings of outdoor scenes. He paused to read a page.

Oh.

No, it couldn't possibly mean anything.

He turned to another page.

Oh.

Another.

Okay, that one wasn't so ... personal. He stopped, took a breath, and turned back to the beginning of the book. For the next several minutes, he read, trailing fingers over the words on each page. It was not, he could now clearly see, a collection of love songs or anything like that. And even if it had been, it wouldn't mean anything. It was just a book, just an odd little book that Crowley had found somewhere and correctly guessed that Aziraphale wouldn't have. He knew that it had been over a century since Aziraphale had paid any attention to popular music.

It really was a lovely gift.

He ought to get Crowley something in return.

\--

Aziraphale had been attending Henry and Caleb's Lost Christmas party for six years now. In some ways, he fit right in among the oddballs and misfits who found themselves unable, unwilling, or unwelcome to spend Christmas Day with their families. It was a lovely time, with lovely company. The food was good, and the wine was excellent.

And yet.

The problem with human friendships was that they couldn't last. Oh, with a little angelic nudge or two, most humans could be persuaded not to notice for a few extra decades the fact that he didn't age. Sooner or later, though, he had to disappear. Lifelong friendships, even ones that were only lifelong by human standards, simply weren't possible. Aziraphale was used to it, but that didn't mean it wasn't a lonely way to live. It was a loneliness he felt most keenly not when he was actually alone, but at times like these, when he found himself in a crowd of people he truly liked.

He didn't stay long after dinner. He never did. He made sure to say his goodbyes before gathering up scarf and gloves and heading out the door. Outside, it was snowing, fat fluffy flakes falling softly from the sky, as though he were inside a snowglobe. He wasn't far from home, and he didn't really feel the cold the way that humans did. It was a rather pleasant walk, really. It was a shame that– but, no, those kinds of thoughts weren't helpful.

What if...?

What if he were to swing by Crowley's flat? Just to drop off his Christmas present. Crowley probably wouldn't even be there. No doubt he was out somewhere, doing something shocking and outrageous. Aziraphale could just pop in and leave the gift on the table, maybe with a note proposing a Boxing Day brunch.

No, he couldn't do that. He shouldn't. He wouldn't.

The gift he'd picked out for Crowley was already in his hand as a cab miraculously pulled up to the curb.

Aziraphale fingered the silver ribbons on the package in his lap. He knew that he was terrible at shopping for the sorts of things that Crowley liked. But there was one thing that Aziraphale was very, very good at, and that was book recommendations. The moment he'd laid eyes on this particular book, he'd known Crowley would like it. Crowley didn't like to talk about his life before he'd Fallen, but he'd once let slip that he'd been a starmaker. And Aziraphale knew that he owned a very high-end telescope, and that as much as he loved city life, he loathed the light pollution that blotted out the stars. It was, perhaps, unimaginative, gifting him a book in exchange for another book, but he was quite sure Crowley would like it. He hoped Crowley would like it.

He left the cabbie a generous tip and stepped out into the snow in front of Crowley's building. This was foolish, really. He could just as easily wait until tomorrow, telephone Crowley to see if he was home, give him the gift in person.

Or he could do it now, since he had come all the way here. He entered the building and made for the stairs. Crowley lived – or at least, kept his things – on the top floor, in a space that had been quite surprised one morning to discover that it was a spacious, well-appointed flat and not a broom closet. Aziraphale had only been over here a few times. They were both more comfortable using the bookshop as a meeting place. Still, it wasn't difficult to find the door. Aziraphale hesitated before knocking. When there was no answer, he knocked again, a bit more firmly.

Still no answer. Well, that was what he had been expecting, wasn't it? No cause for disappointment. He'd just do what he'd planned all along, slip inside and leave the gift on the table. It wasn't as though the door was ever locked for _him_.

Still, when he turned the handle and pushed the door open, he did so slowly, tentatively, as though afraid to find himself unwelcome. He needn't have worried. The flat was empty, and dead silent.

Aziraphale had never much cared for Crowley's taste in decor. Everything was straight lines and stark colours and spotlessly clean in a way that felt unlived-in. There wasn't, he noted, a single Christmas decoration to be seen. Not that that was surprising, but, still.

Right. Write out a quick note. Leave the gift. Head home. Aziraphale had already miracled up a pen and a sheet of high-quality note paper when he heard a sound. It was quite loud in the empty silence of the flat.

It was a snore.

Setting down paper and pen, he made his way down the hall, toward the open door to Crowley's bedroom. He hesitated before peering around the doorjamb. This was inappropriate. A violation of privacy. Unconscionably rude.

He looked in.

Sure enough, there was Crowley, dressed in black silk pyjamas, sprawled out on his back, sound asleep. The thermostat was cranked way up, and what must have started as a cozy cocoon of blankets had been kicked off and strewn about, now covering only one leg and a bit of hip. The room was utterly silent, until the demon let out another snore.

Aziraphale stood in the doorway, knowing he ought to feel guilty about the fact that he was staring. But his mind was consumed by just one thought: _How long had Crowley been asleep?_

It wasn't that late. The truly rowdy, scandalous activities would be only just now getting started. But from the look of it, Crowley had been in bed for a while. Had he slept right through Christmas?

_Had he done this before?_

Suddenly, Aziraphale was remembering every occasion, for the past several decades, when the topic of Christmas plans had come up in conversation. Crowley had always _implied_ that he would be doing something terribly exciting, in some fashionable place, with some disreputable people. But he had never, not once, now that Aziraphale thought about it, actually come right out and said what he had planned.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured. “Oh. My dear.”

He should leave. Turn around, go back to the bookshop. Take his gift with him, so that Crowley wouldn't know he had been here.

And he would. But not just yet.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was crossing the room, sitting down on the floor beside the bed. One of Crowley's hands was hanging over the side, just inches from Aziraphale's knee.

 _You'll wake him_ , his mind warned.

He reached over anyway, and tentatively touched that dangling hand. When Crowley didn't stir, he slowly wrapped his own soft, plump hand around the demon's long, slender one, twining their fingers together. He held his breath. Crowley still didn't move. Everything was silent for a long moment, and then Crowley let out another, slightly softer snore.

Outside, the snow was falling. Aziraphale watched it through the window. He wasn't sure how long he sat there. Oddly enough, this was the least lonely he'd felt at Christmas in a long, long time.

Eventually, of course, reason set in. If Crowley were to wake up and find him here, like this, what on Earth would he say? Oh, dear, no. That would never do. Aziraphale allowed himself just a few seconds more, and then he released Crowley's hand and pushed himself up off the floor.

He would come round again tomorrow. Knock a bit louder, this time. Enquire how Crowley's Christmas had been and pretend to believe whatever story the demon spun. He was careful, as he left, to take the gift with him, the pen and paper as well, to leave no trace that he had been here.

And maybe next year, he'd find it easier to work up the courage to invite Crowley to spend Christmas with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't name it in the story, but I did have a specific book in mind as the one Crowley gave Aziraphale, and it's this one: https://archive.org/details/iwishyougoodspac00ligh - a collection of excerpts from the lyrics of Gordon Lightfoot songs.
> 
> The irony is that, while "Song For a Winter's Night" is excerpted in this particular book, it's done poorly. They cut out a lot of the best lines, including the entire second verse, AKA the verse that made me write this. So no, that song is not one of the ones that got Aziraphale so flustered. Those pages are the ones that excerpt the songs "Beautiful" and "Ordinary Man."


End file.
